Lights!
by crescit eundo
Summary: It's a club, honey. College!AU. Includes genderbending, lots of sexual tension, use of human names, cursing, etc. Pairings to come.
1. Act I, Part I

**Act One**

_Part I_

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**

March 17, 2010, dawned with the sleepy-eyed satisfaction of complete normality. The smog-tinted sunrise brought along with it no extraordinary sense of importance, no… excitement. While individual lives all hid different stories, for the most part everything seemed to be business as usual.

Shopkeepers and vendors dragged themselves out of bed before dawn and were open for business not long after that… businessmen, students, teachers, bums, Buddhists, artists, fathers, sons, mothers and daughters settled into their daily routines as the City That Never Sleeps dragged itself out of the electricity of the night to the waking coma of early morning.

Even Feliciano Vargas, who was always bursting at the (conveniently loose) seams with enthusiasm by the time his birthday _finally_ rolled around, woke with a sense of calm, sitting warm and mellow in his chest.

That didn't last long, of course. With Feliciano, _nothing _lasted long: not pasta, or relationships, or fashionable, $200 haircuts. Books of music were worn out in a week, instruments succumbed within years. But what always seemed to flee him the fastest were those rare senses of overwhelming calm. That morning, he shook off the feeling like a spider on his arm (even though he liked spiders), rose with the sun and tore through his morning routine as quickly as possible once he realized with a loud squeal that _it was his birthday_.

There wasn't even any time to make breakfast, but he didn't have enough macaroni noodles for that _and _lunch _and_ dinner anyway, so he would get some after class; it'd be nice to see the girl at the corner market again! Feliciano barely even stopped long enough to make sure his socks matched his pants before skittering out the door and down the cramped apartment hallway.

When he banged on his sister's door (a few minutes after seven in the morning), what he saw on her face after she opened it was not the excitement he had wholly expected: she looked, in fact, quite the opposite.

No matter how much time he spent at her side, Feliciano was constantly surprised by his sister's constant negativity. All his life he had been waiting (somewhat) patiently for her to run up and hug him, for her to laugh and say that everything else was just a joke, that she really loved him and _nonno _and forgave mama; that she liked all the things that normal people did, rather than hate anything that dared smile or feel any significant amount of joy.

But as she glanced him over, Lovina's expression was more of the same: obviously unhappy, and very annoyed. No change. His hopes, his pure, loving hopes, were dashed once again - but that didn't stop him from lunging forward into a short-lived hug of greeting anyway.

Once he was pushed away and colorfully cursed at in two languages, Feliciano pushed past Lovina and practically dashed into her apartment, without nearly tripping on an instrument case or stepping on a stray piece of sheet music as he did so. His sister's place was right down the hall from his own and very similar in its bones, but the décor and impeccable order of hers set them worlds apart.

Both were teeny-tiny. Two bedrooms (more like glorified closets, seeing as they were barely big enough to stuff in a bed and still have room to walk), a moldy, drippy bathroom, and a combined living room/kitchen. That was all. It was a home IKEA would dream of, if large international Swedish flat-folding furniture warehouses could have dreams.

In Lovina's, however, the pink-and-green overstuffed couch (stolen straight from 1986) and their wall-mounted TV practically took up half the place, while Feliciano's was crammed full with all the evidence of his infatuation with music. One was tastefully decorated and very efficient; the other was a recipe for disaster and true mirror of its single occupant.

Of course, Miss Vargas could never keep a place clean. IKEA was absolutely below her and she, unlike _some_ people, had a _demanding _social lifeto attend to! All of that (manual labor) was taken care of by her reclusive roommate, Kiku Honda - even though it seemed a miracle that the Japanese girl could spare the time to _breathe, _much less keep their home tidy and impeccably organized every single day_. _

Her life was consumed with getting her degree in Medical Assisting (online, of course- it was a lot less stressful that way, or at least it was for Kiku), attending dance classes and singing lessons, learning Greek through some obscenely expensive program _and _working at the local bookstore. That wasn't even to mention her internet (read: porn and trolling) time.

Kiku's distinct lack of a social life should have been some indication of just how she managed to do all that. But seeing how Lovina treated her more as an object to rant and complain at, it came as no surprise that the little details tended to fall through the cracks. That, and Lovina was never one for keen observations anyway. On the outside she was a lot quicker, but really, apples to apples, she was just as thick as her little brother.

Feliciano, of course, had managed to make friends with Kiku within an hour of knowing her. He quickly grew attached, too, somehow, but however close he felt he was to Kiku, it was _nothing_ compared to his friendship with Louise Beilschmidt. How he and the German exchange student had met and become friends was beyond anyone's comprehension, really, but all of those who knew them were rooting for them to finally "get together".

Lovina happened to hate Louise, though, and _no, _it wasn't because of her magnificent breasts or anything. She was an awkward, irritating, stern, smelly old fart of a woman trapped in a pretty girl's body and _she just rubbed Lovina the wrong way, okay? _So, even Feliciano knew that she wouldn't be anywhere near Lovina's apartment if either of them could help it. Really, if Louise could help it, she wouldn't be anywhere near the _building._

"Where's Kiku?" he asked instead, drawing out the _u_ in a way that irritated his sister ten times more than it normally did. It was early, _much_ too early for _any _level of Feliciano Tolerance...

"She went to the gym. Now shoo, bird-brain." Lovina answered, yawning as she padded into the kitchen to pour herself some milk before going back to bed.

She didn't have a class until later, at 11:30, and that was just dance. Jazz, probably. She could definitely skip it. Today was her birthday: she was turning 20! The big 2-0! Such a momentous occasion called for her to take some time off and relax, and relaxation meant no classes, no work, and _especially_ no outstanding annoyances, like the one fidgeting in what spare space there was to do so in the living room/kitchen… area.

Feliciano didn't obey his sister's command. Why would he? Whenever he managed to slip inside her home, he stayed there as long as humanly possible. It was their 'bonding time'. So instead of leaving, he parked himself on the couch and grinned at her back, so brightly that he could have bored a hole in the loose pink fabric of her t-shirt. It was an expectant smile, the look of someone anticipating a gift, or some really great news.

He waited in silence, about to play his favorite game (aside from 'rhyme', 'why?' and 'let's make a pretty song about Louise's breasts!'), 'guess what!', when Lovina suddenly turned and glared at him from what they called the kitchen.

"Well?" she demanded after a brief, could-have-been-tense pause, slowly turning back to open one of the outdated cupboard doors when he didn't answer. She grabbed a mug – _a _mug. Lovina tried to make that as obvious a statement as possible, but of course her stupid little brother didn't get the hint.

When Feliciano asked for some orange juice instead of saying anything at all useful, she snapped something about 'not being your goddamned housewife!' and used that as an excuse to hustle him up and shove him back out the door.

"No, no! I have some very important news! Please, Lovi! O-other than that it's our birthday!" Feliciano whined, stumbling over his words as he desperately switched to Italian in a bid to get back inside.

Lovina faltered. Whenever the siblings used their native tongue with one another, it meant some serious business was going down. Neither Lovina nor Feliciano were particularly _good _at speaking the language anymore, but they managed to communicate somewhat efficiently anyway.

She sighed as he kept waiting for her to invite him back in. He never did what she wanted (or expected) him to do.

"Okay… _fine,_ I'll bite. What is it?"

Her brother's instant grin should have told her. She should have shut the door because then she could have refused him without having to look at his face and his poor, pathetic pout.

She should have slept until noon and gone out to dinner with Kiku, maybe even Marie and Sey. It would have been easy. Easy and safe. What was good news to her brother was an impending annoyance, at best, to Lovina, and he was using his 'good news' voice.

"Grandpa's coming to visit! We're going out for dinner and after class I'm meeting him! You should come too!"

She was a smart girl. She should have known. Dinner with the relatives was never fated to end well… especially those with _her _family.

* * *

And so begins my next adventure. I've got a few more chapters ready, I'd just like to see if there's much interest before I go on. Anon reviews are on so please drop me a comment if you want to see more, it'd be very much appreciated!


	2. Act I, Part II

**Act One**

_Part II_

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_

Romolo Vargas was certainly not a rich man by accident.

Even though he was a heavy-drinking, irresponsible, thrice-married philanderer who got into a lot of senseless bar brawls, he was born the head of an influential Roman family and had managed to keep a tight fist around his good name long enough to build himself a fortune to go along with it.

The source of his abundant wealth? A stylish and _very _popular chain of shops (at least one tucked into each major Italian city), dedicated to hiring local designers, tailors, and highly attractive salespeople to sell one thing: overpriced men's clothing. They sold suits that tourists _adored_, silk ties and shoe polish and classy suspenders too. Everybody who was anybody owned an original Rosa - one of the rich pink shirts the stores sold for one hour every day during August.

Starting up hadn't exactly been easy, and keeping it running smoothly never would be either. But, by some odd combination of luck and sheer determination, Romolo clawed his way up from mediocrity to power and authority in a hateful business, and by God, he _stayed _there. No accident was _ever_ involved.

To many of the people who knew him strictly as a businessman, he was a slick, ballsy genius - a charmer, at that, a showy host and rather generous partner. Designers charmed him shamelessly and wannabes fell at his feet for all the opportunity a 3-minute meeting meant.

Romolo Vargas had only one major weakness.

His grandson.

While Romolo's only child, Chiaretta (God rest her soul), had technically blessed him with _two _grandbabies, for some reason or another he never quite grew pleasantly attached to the girland instead devoted all of his near-obsessive attention to her younger brother. He still called Lovina 'Lavina' and 'Lavinia' at times, if he ever talked to her directly at all.

The boy, unfortunately, had never quite caught on to the tricky business of money and women and people in general, no matter how hard Romolo tried to drill it all into him. He simply wasn't destined to pick up on his Grandfather's trade, and such should have been obvious since Day One, but tenacity in a man such as Romolo Vargas was not always such a great thing.

(If anyone was made to run that business, it was Lovina. But seeing as she'd never been nurtured to take his place in the industry of high fashion and had her _own _plans as to what she would be doing for the rest of her life, there was no chance of it happening any time soon.

Or… ever.)

To his credit, Feliciano _did_ happen to be a great little artist, and although he was as dense as a sack of bricks, he was sweet and harmless and very, very loveable. Ever since he could remember, his time spent with _nonno _was filled with arts and crafts and pasta and pretty ladies. He was protected from anything that hurt and anything that harmed.

One of Romolo's most cherished (and by far, the most legal) pastimes was relentlessly spoiling the boy. It was practically all that their relationship was known for, other than their copious amounts of devotion and similarity to one another. Colleagues and employees whispered amongst themselves whenever they heard their boss coo to him on the phone, or caught wind of his plans for his grandson's next gift.

_Have you ever even _met_ him? The kid, I mean, also did you know there's a girl, too?_

_No, I haven't, but I heard Feliciano wears belts studded with diamonds and always maintains at least three girlfriends at once! He's a carbon copy of the boss! … Wait, there's a girl too? You've got to be kidding me!_

Sometimes, the pampering was just ridiculous. Romolo treated Feliciano like a filthy rich American girl on her 16th birthday - he received a silver Ferrari on _his_ 16th birthday; a month-long trip to Germany on his 17th; and a full year's tuition to a great college in New York _and _the first year's rent on a nearby apartment paid, in full, on his grand 18th.

His sister had been given (more or less) the same upon her terrifying leap into adulthood; it was mere miserable _luck _that they ended up going to the same school. Nobody who knew the two would choose to have them live close together, after all, but they ended up living _right down the hall_ from one another, anyway.

(Romolo figured that it'd be good for the two of them to spend a little more time together).

Romolo was an overachiever, through and through, down deep in his bones. He constantly strove to outdo himself, to rake in more profits and spread his power just that much further than it had been the night before. He was an emperor, ruling over the world… of men's fashion.

So when, on March 2nd, Romolo sat down at his office desk with a glance to his '365 Bible Verses' calendar (a gift from his loving granddaughter) and noticed that Feliciano's birthday was fast approaching, at first he had no idea what to give him. The obligatory chunk of cash, of course, but his little angel was turning _19_! This had to be special!

It seemed that he already had everything that he could possibly want... Romolo tried to recall what Feliciano had chatted about during their last phone call, but it was mostly a blur of the usual: his schoolwork woes, gushing about his sister and his friends and the city and the puppy he petted outside of his favorite deli and Louise got a new bra…

He knew that his grandson was majoring in Jazz Composition, minoring in Art History; his favorite instrument to play, by far, was the trombone. But there was no instrument Feliciano hadn't been bought, no book of music he didn't own. And anything to do with his minor? Forget about it. His walls were already covered in pictures of friends and family, water stains, and strange art prints he bought from artists who were just too good at appealing to his sense of pity and existentialism.

As Romolo thought aimlessly about the gift (considering whether or not having a small library erected in Feliciano's honor would be too much), his granddaughter happened to cross his mind. It wasn't that she never did: quite the opposite, in fact. Romolo just didn't particularly _like _to think about her.

Bitter, sarcastic, and just as prone to bragging outrageously as she was to throwing childish temper tantrums, Lovina Vargas was practically identical to her (late) mother. Who, in turn, was the same as her father. And so it went.

The girl's elders, though, concealed their ugly personalities in favor of creating personas – and letting their true selves tire themselves out through other means. Romolo had his drinking, his affairs, his fighting, and his business. Chiaretta had tended her gardens with obsessive care and doted on her boyfriends and her children almost as much, and just as carefully.

Lovina preferred to dance and sing. Talented though she was, the arts apparently weren't a good enough way to exorcise her anger… and the rest of her (many) flaws. She openly flauntedthem. No… she shoved them in the face of every person she met! It was as if she wasn't even _trying _to appear marriageable. Or normal. Or… tolerable. In any way. At all.

How was she supposed to find a good husband with her piss-poor attitude towards the world? Her beauty (and, equally alluring, her grandfather's wealth) could only get her so far; surely she wouldn't be able to ensnare the man of her dreams unless she made some major changes.

Lovina, after all, liked to talk about getting married and moving far away from her blood family. _So_ far away, in fact, that they'd never be able find her, much less contact or, God forbid, _visit _her.

She'd own a business far more successful than her _nonno's _had ever been_; _she and her gorgeous (preferably famous) Italian husband wouldhave lots of cute babies; they'd live in Palermo; and she'd have a new family that loved and appreciated her, just as she deserved.

While Romolo didn't show his affection for Lovina very much at all, she was still family and he still loved her, no matter how unpleasant or cringe-worthy she could be. So if she wanted to move far away and never talk to them ever again? That'd be great! As long as it made her happy. Romolo was chuckling to himself at the thought of the man who mighttake her as a bride when it hit him. Hard. Like a brusque slap across the face.

He was always looking to branch out, away, for a moment, from the irritatingly intricate business of fashion. Once or twice he'd considered founding another, smaller company, perhaps having to do with quality French soap or pillow 'sensations', but he just didn't have the time to do so himself. L'empero (as his clothing shops were called) was already opening in several other countries.

Lavinia was a singer.

A dancer.

Feliciano, his angel, was a fine and talented musician.

He had his French… nephew… on the phone and his secretary booking him an immediate flight to New York before his next thought had its chance to completely form itself.

Sometimes, he knew, you just had to rely on impulses.

* * *

Borrowed the name 'Romolo' from counterheist; it's just too perfect. 'L'empero' is google-translated; it means The Empire. Uhum ... otherwise, no notes! c:

To answer a question: I honestly don't know for sure which pairings will be in the story, but Giripan, GerIta and Spamano are definite. Others that might show up are Canakraine, USUK, PruSey, TurHun ... the list goes on.

Thank you for reading and make sure to drop a review ~ ;D


	3. Act I, Part III

**Act One**

_Part III_

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This was… This was crazy.

Kiku Honda was a respectful, honorable young woman. All of her actions were executed with careful thought and complete intention. The backbone, the very foundation of her life, was self-control and discipline.

So why, at six sharp on a perfectly typical Wednesday morning, was she about to do something more spontaneous than she ever had before in her entire life, for practically no reason at all?

Now, most people wouldn't call this 'spontaneous'. Kiku had tortured herself over it the night before, stuffing about an hour's worth of sleep in between fretful tossing and turning. For days before _that _her thoughts were consumed with deliberations on what to do: she considered all of her options, weighing her pros and cons like she was trying to decide whether to get a Mac or a PC. She'd even made a spreadsheet on the damn issue!

Well… If anything, she should have done this later. Why hadn't she planned with more care? Surely he'd still be in bed at this hour, nice and warm, tired after some late-night studying or a long day at work.

He was probably naked, too, his strong arms wrapped around his pillow, blanket falling in such a way that his gorgeous back was exposed but he was cleverly covered… not so much that his godly thighs and calves didn't peek out, though, and maybe he'd roll over to expose -

... ... O-oh! Her thoughts were running away with her again!

Kiku flushed even darker than she already was, squeezing her eyes closed - as if that would help cleanse her mind of the images that had already begun to run rampant. What if someone, somewhere, could read her thoughts? What would they say if they saw _him _in there? Every day, every hour, practically every waking second that wasn't already dedicated to her studies…

(The walk from apartment complex to complex had been freezing, but Kiku had a feeling she'd be jumping into an ice cold shower once she got back home anyway.)

It took a moment for her to remember why she was there in the first place.

Clutched tightly to her chest was a worn sketchbook with a soft yellow cover. She found it about two days before, sitting on one of the tables in the small lobby outside her advisor's office. The owner was probably in the bathroom or visiting with his own advisor, and had left it there for only a moment. At the time, though, she had spotted it instantly, badly camouflaged among the waterlogged magazines and ancient pamphlets, and took it.

That day had dawned with a sense of significance, and the satisfaction that filled her upon seeing that little prophetic feeling realized was immense. Kiku had found the sketchbook of the man she most admired; seeing what he designed was like taking a peek into his mind, the thoughts she could never decipher just from what she'd seen and heard of him. And although she was a habitual overthinker, she hadn't been able to draw many conclusions about the mysterious man known as Herakles Karpouzi.

But now …

… Lovina said she had a crush.

Kiku said she was intellectually intrigued.

Beneath the yellow cover Kiku had found a world of decadence. She would never have guessed it – he liked designing clothes. There were quite a few corsets, drawn large to show what would be exquisitely fine embroidery; tutus made of silk, of chiffon, of fishnet and black lace; peacock ball gowns and penguin suits and all manner of other things.

Kiku especially loved the lingerie that seemed to be inspired by traditional kimonos. He had even labeled them in awkward (but still fairly accurate) Japanese. It made her smile.

A blush on her cheeks, she shamelessly imagined herself wearing some of the outfits he had sketched. The discomfort of being stuffed into a corset, the embarrassment of presenting herself so scantily clad without the protection of anonymity, would be nothing compared to the feeling of him slowly untying the knots, his breath on her neck, freeing her in more ways than one; his long fingers traversing her skin, light and teasing…

Hours after she first opened it, Kiku realized with a sudden, electrifying pulse of shame that she should not have done so. _At all_. A sketchbook, after all, was a highly personal thing. It was right up there next to a diary!

And she had practically stolen it, without even a second thought. Her mother was right, studying in America was a bad idea, their ways were rubbing off on her, she had committed a _crime _and the victim was her imaginary lover and - what was she going to _do, _oh gods.

Her humiliation nearly paralyzed her. Kiku repaired his sketchbook slowly and carefully (as it was in bad shape), in an advance attempt to soothe any anger he might have at first realizing his privacy had been so profoundly invaded. She briefly considered filling an envelope with money and enclosing that, too, but she had absolutely no cash to spare.

In any case, she had something important to return to a good man and she needed to just _do _it already because what if she was discovered, standing awkwardly outside their door, trying not to breathe in too deeply because the hallway smelled like wet dog and cheap beer and what business would she say she had there…

Her heart screeched to an overdramatic stop as the door she had fixated her frustrated stare upon swung slowly open. A tall, tanned man leered at her from within. If she would have looked past him into the apartment, she would have seen Herakles himself, sprawled out on the couch, sitting on his feet a girl in a red hijab. She was watching TV and eating ice cream from the tub. The place was dim and smelled of marijuana and strong cinnamon candles.

After receiving no greeting, nor any sign that she was real at all, the man scratched his hairy chest and snorted as he carefully sized her up, taking her in like she was a tall glass of water on a hot day.

Kiku Honda was not exactly strikingly beautiful. Pretty, yes, but in an unassuming, natural way; she was built short, with strong legs, unimpressive breasts and bony, wide hips. Her sword-straight black hair brushed the middle of her back when it wasn't up in a bun or a braid. That morning she had decided to let it fall free, pinning a small fake chrysanthemum up above her ear. Lovina said she looked better that way.

"Well, hel-_lo, _beautiful girl!" the man chirped after deciding that she was worthy of entrance. He grinned lecherously, motioning for this unexpected guest to step inside, where she could be greeted properly. Kiku, however, doll face flaming with absolute mortification at being caught, stayed firmly rooted in place. Her arms wrapped even tighter around the precious book.

It was a great thing that the logical, built-for-survival part of her brain started kicking in about then. While his accent was rather faint, his sneer and his… _chest… _were suddenly unmistakable. He wasn't wearing his trademark mask, but she could tell that it was him.

Sadik Annan. From what Kiku could recall, he was an International Business major and a nice guy; at least, he was as long as you weren't Herakles Karpouzi, or competing against him in beer pong.

One night, Lovina had dragged her to the restaurant where he worked as a combination belly dancer/waiter. The food was great and so, everyone had said, were the dancers, but by the time they were splitting a plate of baklava for dessert and Lovina had almost finished her rant on why boys were stupid anyway, they hadn't seen any at all.

And then the show – they all entered in a sudden cloud of cherry-scented smoke and a burst of cacophonous, probably 'sexy' music. To the diner's great approval and Kiku's deep mortification, they all chose tables and proceeded to show off…

But when Kiku politely asked not to be danced so close to, he'd listened to her! Actually listened! No laughing, no weird looks, nothing! Despite the nonstop flirting she had to put up with after that when they saw each other at school, she still thought Sadik was a good man. Maybe even a… a _friend_.

(Kiku purposely avoided having, or starting, anything even remotely close to a so-called 'life'. It was Lovina who tallied up her friends and dragged her out of the apartment at somewhat regular intervals to improve the numbers.

After all, if it were up to Kiku, she'd only leave to go to dance, singing lessons and to soak up the occasional bit of Vitamin D. Otherwise she couldn't care less about going outside or seeing people.

Once, she had gone four days completely without human interaction. That was nice.)

… However highly she automatically held him, however, Sadik was _not _the person she had expected to see – no, the person she _wanted _to see. If not Herakles, then at least Hassan, or... anyone else. _Anyone._

Kiku had no idea who exactly lived in that apartment, as it changed every day, what with people drifting in and out. But most of them wouldn't have a mind to flirt so early in the morning, and they'd put a shirt on, too! Sadik was in the middle of saying something (that was likely very inappropriate) when she took a deep breath, snapped out of her trance, prepared herself to do something _brave, _and …

She shoved the notebook at his chest, squeaked something about 'Herakles-san's notebook!', and promptly sprinted away, down the hall, ignoring his shouts, narrowly avoiding a collision with someone leaving for work, trying not to cry as she cursed herself for wasting the perfect opportunity once _again_.

* * *

Kiku is my most favorite awkward muffin ever ~

Going with 'Sadik', 'Herakles', and 'Hassan' for Turkey, Greece and Egypt's names because I want to; Kiku's a woman's name too, so.

Thank you again for your reviews, as always, they're a big encouragement!


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